


When Life Hands You Werewolves

by uraneia



Category: Stargate Atlantis, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Derek is an alien, First Kiss, M/M, Teen Wolf AU, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uraneia/pseuds/uraneia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Four hours—that’s how long it takes after the Daedalus II drops off the new contingent of baby scientists and Marines before Rodney starts taking bets on who’ll be the first to get into Derek Hale’s pants.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>A month ago John's team rescued a former runner named Derek Hale. He's great to have on offworld missions--he's like a danger magnet; nobody else gets so much as a splinter. But there's just something <i>different</i> about him. John can't quite put his finger on it....</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Life Hands You Werewolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lupinus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinus/gifts).



When Life Hands You Werewolves

 

It takes Rodney all of four hours to set up the pool, and he was in bed with John for two of them. Not that John’s smug about that or anything.

Okay, he’s a little smug. So maybe fifty’s looming a little uncomfortably and forty is disappearing rapidly in the rearview mirror. John would say it’s not the years, it’s the mileage, but—well. He’s got a lot of those too. As Rodney would point out, the alternative is not so good.

Anyway, four hours—that’s how long it takes after the _Daedalus II_ drops off the new contingent of baby scientists and Marines before Rodney starts taking bets on who’ll be the first to get into Derek Hale’s pants.

*

_One month previously_

Ronon throws the body down at John’s feet. John winces on the guy’s behalf, but he doesn’t even flinch—out cold from the numbing blast of Ronon’s stun weapon.

John feels a little like a cat owner at the moment, to be honest. He raises an eyebrow at Ronon. “Who’s your friend?”

Ronon kneels, works a hand under the guy’s collar, and tugs down sharply. The fabric rips, revealing an all-too-familiar pattern of scarring on his back. “He’s a runner.”

Jesus. John didn’t get a great look at the guy’s face, and it’s hard to see much what with the mountain man beard, but John thinks he can’t be more than twenty-five, maybe twenty-six, and the Wraith haven’t been a strong enough presence in Pegasus to make new runners in ten years. He wonders if this guy knows that, or if he’s just been desperately hopping from planet to planet, praying he could stay ahead. Stay alive. He feels a little sick. “McKay, can you…?”

“Obviously,” Rodney says; John just smirks at his eye roll and stands back to give him room.

*

John has to give the guy credit—he doesn’t so much _come to_ in the infirmary as sit bolt upright and reach for the weapon (defunct—Rodney checked) he doesn’t have anymore. But since he’s handcuffed to the bed, he doesn’t get very far.  

The runner’s eyes go wide. “Let me go,” he says. “Let me go, you don’t know what’ll _happen_ —”

Like he’s seen it happen one too many times. John makes a mental note to refer him to whoever the hell they’ve got heading up psychology now. “Hey, relax, okay? Drs. Keller and McKay teamed up to solve your little Wraith tracker problem.” Though they were both stumped by the silver ankle bracelet, which they couldn’t get off but which doesn’t appear to be _doing_ anything. “Nobody’s going to find you here.”

Those eyes narrow, and John belatedly realizes that could be interpreted as a threat. Which he should apparently be concerned about, because the guy starts straining at the handcuffs, and—holy shit, the metal frame of the bed is _bending_. The cuffs slice into the guy’s wrists and blood starts dripping down his hands, but he apparently doesn’t _care_.

“Whoa! Hey, sorry, that came out sounded more menacing than I meant it, I swear. We only cuffed you for our safety. I’ll take them off if you promise not to hurt us. Or yourself.”

He stops struggling, his head cocked to the side, like he’s listening to some advice from the universe John can’t hear. Finally he just nods, incrementally.

John _thinks_ at the cuffs and they drop open. “I’m John Sheppard,” he says as Atlantis’s newest resident stares at his wrists in disbelief, and extends his hand to shake.

The guy lifts his head. After a long pause, he clasps John’s hand, sticky bloody palm and all. “Derek Hale.” His grip is like _iron_ , Jesus.

“Nice to meet you. Sorry for the whole”—John gestures helplessly—“stunning, kidnapping, surprise surgery thing. Let me call Dr. Keller back in to look at your wrists.”

*

After that—well. John won’t say Derek fits in on Atlantis. That’s the thing about Atlantis, though, is nobody really fits in. They’re all outcasts and pariahs, losers and misfit toys.

Plus, it’s really hard to fit in when you stand out so much.

“You’re drooling,” John tells Cadman helpfully over lunch in the cafeteria.

She raises a hand to her mouth automatically before shooting him a death glare. “It’s not like _you_ didn’t look.”

“He’s not really my type.”

Cadman lifts an incredulous eyebrow. “Sheppard. He’s _everyone_ ’s type.”

Okay, so a shower and a shave and some clothes that fit properly did wonders for the guy. John’s _alive_ , so he noticed.

John shrugs. “Too quiet.”

“Ugh.”

He grins. He loves getting her to make that face. “Seriously, though, what’s it like being on a team with him?” Cadman always bitches that John gets all the hot aliens on his team, so when Derek said he wanted to help, she called dibs.

“Weird.” She looks sideways at him before leaning forward. “I think he has, like, super hearing or something.” Across the cafeteria, Derek bites angrily into his sandwich. “And I know he looks like he could take down a light armored vehicle, but….”

“But?” John prompts.

“He gets beat up a lot. Like, a _lot_. I don’t think he’s ever won a fight.”

Yeah, John’s seen Teyla wipe the floor with him. He winces in sympathy. Been there.

“But at the same time….” Cadman shakes her head like she thinks she’s going crazy.

“What?”

She cuts Derek another glance, then purses her lips and shrugs. “I swear to God he’s like a good luck charm. No one else has gotten so much as a splinter since he joined the team. All the freaky animal things seem to go after him first. And he’s got some kind of crazy alien healing going on, because I swear he shouldn’t have survived getting slashed by that velociraptor thing, never mind been able to walk back to the gate! And then Keller said he didn’t even need stitches!”

Okay, that’s… weird. “Well, he’s not human,” John reasons. “His species must have accelerated healing.” Probably to compensate for not being able to fight for shit.

“Maybe,” Cadman allows. “Anyway, enough gossip. Do you need me to go over the roster for the inbound newbies?”

*

For the next few weeks John tries not to think about Derek too much. It’s depressing, the expression he gets any time someone is kind to him. It makes John want to tear his heart out and stomp on it. It’d be less painful.  Maybe he’s just getting soft in his old age.

Ronon sort of takes Derek under his wing (and only Ronon could get away with that figure of speech, because Derek is huge), and John adjusts his afternoon rounds so he can watch them beat the tar out of each other in the gym. He thinks Derek’s improving, but it’s hard to focus enough to tell for sure.

Rodney doesn’t ask what’s gotten into him. John’s pretty sure he has the gym under surveillance. It’s a good couple weeks.

And then the _Daedalus II_ arrives.

John, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon are still Atlantis’s flagship team even now that John’s in charge of the expedition (which he likes to forget about most of the time), but they don’t go offworld much anymore. They do, however, get to be the contingent to meet and greet all the newbies. This time John invites Cadman’s team too, because—fine. He _is_ getting soft in his old age, and he thinks the privilege might do something for Derek’s self-esteem.

Which is stupid because Derek doesn’t even _know_ it’s a privilege, but.

Supplies and newbies beam together into the gate room. John dispatches a couple of Marines to get the supplies where they need to go and accepts the salutes of a bunch of overdressed children—the new recruits get younger every year—before getting down to the business of introductions.

“As you have no doubt been informed by now, I’m General Sheppard”—the word _general_ still leaves a bad taste in his mouth—“and this is my city, so I expect you to show her the proper respect. Colonel Cadman here is my XO and leads one of our expedition teams. If you’re interested in fieldwork, she’s the one to talk to. Those of you who are here for R &D probably know Dr. McKay by now. You will sincerely regret getting on his bad side. I recommend copious bribes of coffee and single malt.”

Someone laughs. One pale kid who looks like he’s barely even old enough to have graduated high school looks like he’s about to start taking notes. John doesn’t like either of their chances for survival. Rodney’s going to eat them both alive.

“And these are our official and unofficial ambassadors from the Pegasus galaxy. Teyla Emmagan, Ronon Dex, and Derek Hale.”

Derek startles when John says his name, then ducks his head as his ears turn pink. John gets a sudden overwhelming urge to try to teach him to play golf.

But he puts it aside. He has work to do first. “So, we need to get you all set up with Atlantis IDs and room assignments. Dr. McKay’s going to make sure you’re not carrying any snakey parasites, and then you can head over to Colonel Cadman for the rest of it. Teyla, Ronon, and Derek will take you for the tour in groups. Give Derek a break if he gets lost, though, he’s new.”

And then John insinuates himself next to Cadman to go over the administrative details. He keeps an eye on Derek as Cadman doles out the first few room assignments and ID cards—he has the third tour group—and he seems… interested. He doesn’t try to approach anyone, but he takes everything in with wide green eyes, and every once in a while John would swear he looks like he’s _smelling_ people. Maybe he is.

Derek keeps his distance until Teyla leaves with the second group, and then he suddenly parks himself a few feet past the end of the table.

Cadman hands over an ID card to a willowy Marine with dimples like craters and a face like actual sunshine. Corporal Argent doesn’t quite manage anything like gravitas when she salutes John this time, but he can’t say he blames her. Atlantis is awesome. He shakes his head. “At ease.” Then he motions her over to wait for the rest of her group.

He likes processing the new Lanteans this way—it helps him put a face to a name when someone fucks up. And he has a feeling he’s going to need that with the next guy, because—

“—seriously if all Pegasus inhabitants look like that I’m going to go through my lube supply in a week.” The pale kid from earlier stops in front of John and turns a gratifying shade of vermilion.

“You should probably hold off on that until you’ve had your Pegasus booster shots,” John tells him dryly. “Intergalactic STIs.”

The kid facepalms with one spindly hand. “Oh my God, I meant with all the jerking off I’d be doing, who’s going to have sex with me when _that’s_ walking around?”

John doesn’t turn around to check Derek’s expression, but dear God it’s tempting.

The puppy-eyed Marine behind the pale scientist puts a hand on his shoulder, his expression pained. “Sorry, sir. He’s a little excited to be back on an actual planet after the trip here. Stiles, buddy, you need a filter.”

“He needs a keeper,” John mutters, snaking the ID badge from Cadman and checking out the room assignments.

“Uh, that would be me, sir,” the Marine says. “Staff Sergeant Scott McCall. Unofficial chemistry genius detail.”

Good to know. John asks nicely, and Atlantis reorganizes the room assignments for him: McCall and the scientist—Stilinski, the computer tells him—in neighboring suites, with Derek down the hall. Not that John thinks McCall looks incapable, but John has experience with genius scientists and the trouble they get into.

“You’re all set,” Cadman finally tells the last in line, a redheaded math wiz with a sharp tongue and an attitude. John makes a mental note to assign her to any other lab but Rodney’s. “Enjoy the tour.”

But for the time being, at least, Derek doesn’t seem to have noticed his group is ready to go. He’s busy blinking widely at Dr. Stilinski, obviously trying to keep up with what’s probably a very personal line of questions about life in Pegasus, if John’s any judge.

John clears his throat. “Derek. You got this, buddy?”

Derek looks up, a sudden flash of guilt crossing his face. “Of course, General.” Then he turns back to the assembled children and his usual gruff manner returns with a vengeance. “Get your things and follow me.”

When Rodney starts the pool, John puts a case of microbrew on Stilinski.

*

Even so, John anticipates it’ll be a long while before he manages to collect. Anyone who’s been through what Derek’s been through would be leery of getting attached.

But Stilinski is persistent, as John learns firsthand when he badgers his (temporary) way onto Cadman’s team for a mission that has something to do with some kind of Pegasus metallurgy. John doesn’t know how someone his age—he’s twenty-four but looks seventeen—managed dual PhDs in chemistry and materials engineering, but he imagines it involved a lot of Red Bull and seven years of accidental abstinence. Unfortunately Stilinski is the only qualified metallurgist they have on staff, so eventually John has to say yes.

He makes sure Derek goes too, then adds McCall and Argent as extra security detail, just in case. He just… has a bad feeling.

When they all trek back into the gate room, white-faced, John knows he was right.

“I don’t want to jump the gun and say Genii 2.0,” Cadman says during their private debriefing. “But… Genii 2.0.”

John facepalms. “Awesome. Anything in particular?”

“They didn’t take to Hale, sir. At all.” She pauses. “And they liked Stilinski too much.”

Well, John reflects, Derek is sort of an acquired taste. Then again, so’s Stilinski. And now he’s _definitely_ having Genii flashbacks. It hasn’t escaped his attention that the most valuable commodity the Atlantis team has brought to Pegasus is genius scientists with soft underbellies. “Okay. I’ll strike them off the friendlies list.” He’s glad they can afford to be a little pickier with their allies, these days.

When he wanders into the lab later to pick Rodney’s brain about the threat level posed by the Planet of the Metallurgists, he finds Derek sitting on Stilinski’s desk, his left pant cuff rolled up to his shin. Stilinski’s in his chair, bent over in a way that puts him about face level with Derek’s crotch, but he’s looking at the silver circlet around Derek’s ankle, which is propped on his thigh.

John mentally revises the expected time until his beer fridge is full again.

“Jesus, Derek,” he mutters, touching the skin around the metal with obviously reverent fingers. Derek’s known Stiles for a week. He’s known John a month and he still goes stiff whenever John claps him on the shoulder unexpectedly. “This has been on here for how long?”

Derek meets John’s gaze and blushes just before John clears his throat. Stilinski rolls his chair backward, red to the tips of his ears. “General!” he squawks. “I didn’t see you there!”

Stilinski wouldn’t have seen John if he’d danced the hula naked two feet behind Derek wearing a crown of glow-in-the-dark dildos. “You can both relax. I’m just looking for Rodney.” Who clearly read the need for privacy better than John did for once, and has made himself scarce. John nods at the anklet. “What’s that?”

The two of them exchange a glance, and then Derek answers. “It’s… they call it a limiter.”

Well doesn’t that sound fun. “Who does?”

Another loaded glance, and then Stiles sighs. “The Metallurgists. I’m not 100 percent sure, but somehow it interferes with his”—he waves his hand—“whatever, natural mojo, I guess? I’m trying to figure out how to get it off.”

John has to press his lips into a hard line to avoid the instinctive _yelling_ that wants to get out. He manages to keep his voice even when he turns his gaze on Derek. “And you didn’t think to ask us about this?”

Derek looks at the floor. “I don’t—“ he begins. And then: “You’ve done so much for me already—”

John wants to punch something. Instead he lets out a long breath and resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He hates doing that. His father used to do that. “Stop. Stilinski, getting that thing off Derek is your new top priority. If Rodney gives you grief about it, you send him to me, okay?”

“Uh,” Stilinski says, clearly not relishing the thought of standing up to his superior. “Yes. Sir. Okay.”

“Great.” With that settled, John turns back to Derek. He hates himself a little for what he’s about to ask, but he’s leader of the expedition now, and he has to. “So this limiter—the Metallurgists use it on your people to limit their abilities. What for?”

Derek hunches over on himself, and Stilinski reaches out, wraps long fingers around his ankle as if to ground him. John wishes he were anywhere else. “They hate my kind. About a year after the Wraith captured me, I let my guard down on a planet allied with the Metallurgists. I was only seventeen, and I didn’t watch my drink. I woke up in a field with this on my ankle.” He pauses, obviously reluctant to go on, but then he looks at Stilinski and decides to go for it. “It’s meant to make us less dangerous so we’re suitable for… training their young.”

Stilinski makes a noise like a wounded animal. John knows the feeling.

“I escaped because the Wraith followed me and found them instead.”

John pretends not to notice the perverse mix of satisfaction and grief in Derek’s voice when he says it. He doesn’t have the slightest clue what to say to that, or how to begin to address his horror. Jesus fuck. Most of the time John loves Pegasus, but sometimes the whole galaxy is such a _dick_. “Okay,” he manages finally, reaching for his General Sheppard mask as he turns to Stilinski. “The Athosians are in the middle of a harvest festival, and I promised Derek the chance to show off his dance moves, but it turns out I’ve got paperwork. Can’t make it. You okay to be his DD? I can clear it with McKay.” Stilinski’s ATA gene is almost as strong as John’s; John can feel Atlantis humming with pleasure that she has two of them now.

“Uh,” Stilinski says. “Sure?”

“Great. Better pack an overnight bag, you can leave in an hour.”

Rodney’s probably going to DQ him from the betting pool for interfering, but what else can he do?

*

Stilinski must be a slow romance kind of guy, though, because even two months later, John’s pretty sure he and Derek still aren’t sleeping together. At this point John practically has sympathetic blue balls. Metaphorically, anyway.

Then again, maybe it’s all for the best, John thinks when he shows up in medical in time to see Derek leave Keller’s office, his gaze determinedly fixed on the floor. When John sticks his head in, he finds Keller sitting behind her desk, her face in her hands, her ears bright red, the tablet on the desk in front of her displaying human anatomy in reasonably graphic detail.

Holy shit.

John opens his mouth before his brain can chime in. “Did I just walk in on the tail end of the sex talk?”

Keller hiccups. John can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying or just slowly dying of mortification. “God, close the door.”

John does, then takes the seat across from her. “Does this sort of thing fall under doctor-patient confidentiality?”

Keller hiccups again and her shoulders shake. Finally she pries her hands away from her face. “Theoretically, yes. But since I have to do a species report you’ll end up reading anyway….”

Sometimes John deeply regrets his natural curiosity. He’s not sure yet whether this is one of those times. “So you did just give an alien the sex talk?”

“Not exactly?” She shrugs and seems to slip out of her embarrassment. “Derek’s not human, and because of his species’ persecution by the Metallurgists, he hasn’t had much contact with humans. Not the friendly kind, anyway. And his species’ reproductive method is slightly more complicated than ours.”

John doubts that’s as fun as it sounds. “More complicated how?”

Keller digs into Atlantis’s database. Apparently the Ancients had some knowledge of Derek’s people. “Well, for starters, they have an actual biological gender spectrum, and it’s common to shift back and forth along it multiple times in one’s lifetime. If I’m reading the charts right, it wouldn’t be unusual for a male—or I guess, what we humans would consider from exterior appearances to be a male—to bear children.”

Pegasus is so cool. “That’s a pretty big ‘for starters.’”

She nods eagerly. “Also, we’ve seen some evidence of Derek’s enhanced senses—hearing and so on—but apparently smell plays a big part in daily life as well. Scent can help them determine not only whether a partner is interested but whether they’re, ah, receptive.”

It takes John a minute to sort through that one. And then he says, aware of his own red cheeks, “Are you telling me Derek can smell who, uh, who pitches and who catches?”

“Among members of his own species, yes.” Keller pointedly doesn’t meet his eyes, for which John is grateful.

And then it occurs to him. “So wait, did he come in here because he wanted to know how to tell if—”

Keller puts her face in her hands again. “That’s confidential!”

Right. Okay. John doesn’t actually want to know the answer anyway.

Fucking Pegasus. He’s just about to take his leave when the intercom screeches John’s least favorite phrase. “Unscheduled offworld activation!”

Well, at least he’ll be too busy to think about his subordinates’ sex lives.

*

It turns out the Metallurgists have a compound to eat through the shielding on the gate. Isn’t _that_ a fun discovery.

The second he hears who’s dialing in, John gets Derek on the radio. “It’s them,” he says. “I don’t know if they’re coming for you or Stilinski—”

Derek snarls. “Over my dead body.”

That’s probably the idea, and John would really prefer him alive. “Don’t do anything stupid. Take Argent and McCall for backup—”

Derek doesn’t answer. Apparently being a grumpy self-sacrificing SOB doesn’t leave much time for chatter in times of crisis. John can get behind that. He needs most of his breath for his all-out run to the labs anyway. Like hell does he want any of those assholes anywhere near Rodney.

As luck would have it, it’s all over by the time John arrives.

Six unfamiliar bodies litter a floor slick with blood. The seventh, a tall, thin, cruel-looking woman with long blonde hair, falls slackly from Derek’s hands as John skids in, putting a hand out to the wall to stop himself from falling. Her throat is missing.

Stilinski’s pressed up against the wall behind Derek, pale but resolute. There’s a clean gash down the side of his face that looks like it would match the knife on the floor at Derek’s feet. Across the room, Corporal Argent is holding her balled-up shirt to what must be a gaping hole in McCall’s abdomen, her expression steely but resigned.

“I called for a medical team,” Stilinski says, his voice thick, but John knows it’s already too late.

That leaves Derek, who has turned into a fairy-tale monster in the half an hour since John last saw him. His teeth have elongated and his brow ridged, his ears are pointy, he’s got the best lamb chops John’s ever seen, and he really needs a manicure.

His hands—claws—and chin drip with blood John’s pretty sure isn’t his own. The color matches his eyes. He is absolutely terrifying.

John makes it a point not to raise his weapon. “Derek, buddy, we are gonna have a talk later.”

Derek blinks in surprise, and then his eyes return to their usual blue-green, and he gestures to McCall. “I can help him.”

Argent looks up with tears in her eyes, but her voice is clear. “He has minutes, sir. At best.”

“Don’t shoot me,” Derek says. “It’s annoying.”

As if John doesn’t know _that_ already. “Do it.”

Then Derek gently nudges Argent aside, slices McCall’s BDUs open further, and sinks his teeth into the kid’s hip.

What the ever-loving hell.

“Stilinski,” John says.

The kid slides down the wall he’s been leaning against. Apparently he can’t stand up with Derek all the way across the room. Still, he’s not doing too bad for his first major Pegasus crisis. “Yeah.”

“When did you get the limiter off?”

“Last night. Don’t you check your e-mail?”

John scrubs his hands over his face. It’s barely past noon and he already wants a nap. “Where’s Rodney?”

“Dr. Martin’s lab.”

That’s right—Rodney and Dr. Martin have been bickering over proposed solutions to a Millennium Prize problem for a week solid. John’s been waiting to get them both in the same room to tell them both their solutions are wrong; maybe they can bond over their mutual embarrassment.

Back to the problem at hand. “How is biting him going to help?”

Because Derek’s kneeling on the floor beside McCall now, and against all odds, color is returning to McCall’s face, and his breathing is deepening. When Derek pulls the cloth away from the gaping hole in McCall’s abdomen, John can actually see it stitching itself closed.

“Okay,” John says aloud. “Did not see that coming.”

When McCall opens his eyes, they flash _yellow_ before landing on Corporal Argent, then Derek. “I’m not dead?”

Holy God, there’s going to be so much paperwork. John slumps down into one of the lab chairs as Keller’s med team rushes in, heedless of the blood all over the floor.

“Um,” Keller says as McCall’s wound finishes disappearing. “False alarm?”

“Not so much.” John gives in and pinches the bridge of his nose. God, he’s so old. “Please keep Sergeant McCall under close observation for the next couple of hours. Corporal Argent, keep him company. Unofficially—you can change first.” She looks like she took a sponge bath in his blood.

Then John looks at Stilinski. “You still have that limiter?”

He nods, wide-eyed.

“Give it to Argent. Just in case.”

Derek growls.

“Just in case,” John reiterates. “If he’s going to have your abilities, he could wake up from a PTSD nightmare and take out half our medical staff before he knew what he was doing.”

“I should definitely be dead,” McCall puts in. “Hey, what happened to Derek’s face?”

“Shut up,” Derek says, and his visible growliness retracts into his usual groomed scruff. “He’ll need training,” he admits to John. “I can teach him.”

“Fantastic,” John says. “But not today.”

That seems to satisfy him. John waits for Stilinski to hand the limiter to Argent, listens with half an ear as Derek explains awkwardly that his species can also apparently replicate itself by _biting people_ , then comms Rodney because holy shit, Derek’s a werewolf.

Pegasus is so cool.

*

Three days later, after rampant speculation, Stilinski shoves Derek up against the wall in the mess hall and lays one on him.

John has to assign himself another storage locker so he has room for all the beer.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] When Life Hands You Werewolves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1578125) by [isweedan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isweedan/pseuds/isweedan)




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